


Nick and Harry's Infinite Playlist

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: AU, M/M, basically all Nick's hipster crew, i had goals and aspirations once, i'm so sorry that this is what my life has become, this is a work in process don't be surprised if it never comes to an end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:43:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Nick/Harry AU based loosely on the novel (emphasis on novel) of Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist. Set sometime in midsummer London, the night is young and the vibe is infinite. This is easily the worst blurb I’ve ever written.</p><p>or Nick works with Louis who used to date Harry who is in a shitty queercore band with Zayn and Niall who are playing at a club Nick and his friends happen to stumble across. What happens next could be love or it could be a self-indulgent fic about music and unattainable boys. Your pick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this as WIP on my laptop for weeks now and it's pretty much all planned out in my head but getting it down in writing is about to give me a stroke so I'm publishing it now to pressure myself into finishing it. I am notorious for never finishing anything I start so I apologize in advance if this is a) crap, and b) abandoned by Chapter 2.

_ When you're really by yourself it's hard to find someone to hold your hand. _

Oblivion, _Grimes_

**Harry**

Harry had never planned on going out that night. In fact, if it had been up to him, he’d have still been at home, wallowing with a pint of praline Haagen-Dazs and The Great British Bake-Off.

Instead, he’d been mobbed by his band-mates, forced out of his sweatpants, and sworn into performing at some ratty hipster club in Shepherds Bush. Zayn had done that thing with his eyelashes where he managed to look like an innocent creature left abandoned in the woods – not the silver-tongued lead singer of a shitty post-punk band who regularly got trashed on weekends and slept with numerous Boy London-donning models that he _actually_ was – and Niall would have hit on his sister again if he didn’t get him out quick enough, so naturally Harry had no other option but to agree to play that night.

He’d pointedly ignored the jibes about not leaving the house since _The Thing_ and made half an effort dress-wise thanks to Zayn snatching the Doncaster Rovers shirt away before Harry could tug it over his head. How it ended up in the Thames was a whole other story, but Niall had insisted it was symbolic or some shit. Harry still wasn’t feeling it. If anything, seeing the shiny white material float down the murky river just reminded him of how good it had looked stretched over Louis’ torso.

Fuck, he’d thought about him.

The thing is, nobody had ever warned Harry how stressful being heart-broken could be. Films depicted breakups to be angsty teenage girls crying into each other’s t-shirts and re-watching The Notebook, maybe not shaving their legs for a few too many days and eventually realizing they had sufficient emotional fodder to become a feminist. But that wasn’t true at all.

If it was, Harry would have been cured weeks ago. He liked self-indulgence just as much as the next girl.

Instead, Harry was suffocated by memories. They swarmed him everywhere – in the reflection of the cabinet mirror in his bathroom, a ‘Louis was here xx’ scribbled on its surface in Gemma’s lipstick; behind the geranium patch of his garden, flowers still matted from Louis repeatedly kicking the football there because “that’s proper nana-shit, Haz”; every time he looked up from the till to a customer with those same blue eyes…

Except they never were the same.

In fact, it had been thirty-seven days since he’d last seen Louis, and every day that passed was both better and worse. Better because all he had left were memories, past instances of happiness that he could convince himself were just a romanticized view of their relationship. Worse, because Harry still missed him, so much.

It had gotten so bad that Zayn and Niall took the tube to his house and literally pulled him out of bed, their expressions a mix of pity and disgust.

“When was the last time you left your room?” Niall asked, taking a tentative sniff at Harry’s t-shirt. It was a shocking shade of orange and reeked faintly of turpentine. He immediately recoiled, tugging the shirt off of Harry’s chest and shoving it into a black bin liner.

Harry shrugged, nodding towards a plate of stale toast on his bedside. “Got that this morning. And I’ve been working at the bakery.”

Zayn sighed. “Well, at least we know you haven’t been watching nothing but Mary Berry for the past few weeks.”

Harry chose not to mention that he had almost the entire Food Network recorded, and aside from that had only ventured as far as Jezza Kyle and The Weakest Link for his daily entertainment. Some things were better left unsaid.

Zayn pulled open the curtains, pouring fresh light into the dusty corners of his bedroom. Harry had gotten so used to musky scent of abandoned laundry and the dim glow of sunshine against opaque curtains that he stumbled back a bit, shielding his eyes. Niall laughed fondly, giving him a great clap on the back.

“About time your pasty arse saw some light, Harry,” he chuckled, foraging through the laundry piles for something that could pass off as clean. “You’re almost reflective.”

Harry’s blatant ‘fuck off’ gesture was ruined by a balled up t-shirt being thrown at his face, and he unfurled it resentfully. Wiggling it on, Zayn straightened out the shoulders and rolled up the sleeves.

“There we go, the Harry we know and love. Now put on some pants and we’ll meet you downstairs, you dick. Your mums made eggs benny.” With an excited guffaw from Niall, the two left his room, their voices trailing down the staircase until they fused with the kitchens regular knocking sounds.

Alone once more, Harry sighed. It was going to be a long night.

//

**Nick**

“And that was Grimes with ‘Oblivion’, a favourite here at Lights. She’s dead cool, that Grimes, wonky fringe and hidden cobras and all. Are you a fan, Louis?” Nick called out, startling the passing boy as he heard his name and almost walked into a vending machine.

Turning to the source of his shock, Louis glared at Nick and flipped him off from behind the glass wall between them. It was Nick’s belief that a frustrated Louis was the only Louis worth having around, so he simply waved back benignly and turned to his mic.

“That was a very rude gesture, Louis,” he drawled, grinning as Louis rolled his eyes but joined him nevertheless at the radio booth. “I believe you should apologize to our friend Grimes and myself both for the distress you just put us through.”

Louis merely flipped him off again, reaching over to speak into the microphone. “I will apologize to Grimes, but not to you, Grimshaw. Sorry Grimes, you seem lovely.”

“Lovely? We’re talking about the hippest thing to happen to indie since Yannis Philippakis trimmed his side-part, and all you can say is ‘Grimes seems lovely’? Despicable, Tomlinson, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

Louis shrugged, smiling into his hideous striped jumper with the tea stain on the sleeve. “Indie is the biggest load of bollocks I have ever heard.” He stated.

Nick gasped, covering his microphone as if to protect it from Louis’ treacherous words. “Watch it Tomlinson, or one day I may take you seriously and never allow you into my studio again.”

They both knew that this threat was as empty as Nick’s fridge on a good day, as neither had control over areas nor the dwellings of fellow DJs, but Louis still let out a high-pitched shriek of indignation. Nick figured it was due to his previous job as a drama teachers assistant, a path he knew Louis would much rather be taking had he not become the host of the 4PM charts show on their shitty little East-London radio station.

Nick had worked at Lights FM for almost three years now, covering the nighttime indie slot one hangover at a time. He would have been perfectly content to work there his entire life, sifting through record after record, addressing the masses (or so he liked to think) and introducing them to the tracks he hoped would change their lives. Music was a big deal to him, and as he could neither sing nor play any instrument, the least he could do was be particularly informed on what was cool and what was not.

His life of musical elitism had been fairly cozy until Louis Tomlinson had come barreling into it, obnoxious-coloured pants and elfin good looks in tow. He was so painfully unapologetic for his music taste and ridiculous style that Nick couldn’t help but grow stupidly fond of the boy, despite both their protests. What he lacked in taste though, he made up in boyfriend. Nick had never met the poor bastard, but every few weeks Louis turned up with an unopened, beautifully illustrated CD, loaded with a perfect playlist ranging from early Bone Thugs N’ Harmony to the brand new Tame Impala that he deposited on Nick’s desk as if ridding himself of a plague.

(When Nick had asked why he never listened to them, Louis had serenely said, “Harry doesn’t need any more encouragement, I’m being nice.” and God, Nick did not want to get involved, but whoever this poor sod who was dating Louis was, Nick just wanted to send him flowers and an apology card. Possibly sparkly and pink.)

The CD Louis handed him now was decorated with an intricate image of a ship on it, billowing sails and shaded masts. It was beautiful, and he wondered if Harry himself had drawn it. Inside there lay a turquoise disk, etched with the names of each song in slanted, loopy writing. Nick smiled despite himself.

“I thought you and Harry had broken up,” He said, after having introduced and put on the new Everything Everything track. Louis was lounging around on the wheelie chair, tiny feet resting on a pile of papers Nick was more than happy to avoid.

“We have.”

“Then why are you handing me another of his CD’s?” Nick shook the case in front of Louis, who barely glanced at it, clearly disinterested.

“I found it today under a pile of his clothes, it was the last one he gave me. I’m obviously not going to listen to it, and I know you go mental over whatever crap Augustana remix he’s put on there-“

“Harry has never put a crap Augustana remix on his playlists!”

“-whatever, Nick, I know you like that whiny, not-even-Cadbury-Milk-Tray-could-help-me-now kind of stuff – hell, you play it for four hours a day – so I’m giving the CD to you who will appreciate it much more than me. A rather generous thought, I would say.” Louis flipped his hair, gazing wistfully into the distance like his sloppy CD seconds certified him to the kindness leagues of Princess Diana.

Nick rolled his eyes, no matter how secretly relieved he was to have another of the mysterious Harry’s precious playlists. The man had impeccable taste and oddly endearing handwriting, and Nick totally did not have a crush on him. Whoever he was.

“Anyway, before you so rudely interrupted me, I was on my way to see Greg – you know, my boyfriend? I suppose you wouldn’t know much about those, Nicholas, having a heart of glistening ice, but as I am very wanted and important, I must be off. Pleasure speaking to you; try not to cream your pants over that CD until you’re in the privacy of your own home.” And he sauntered off, hips sashaying to the beat of the drum from the speakers, and Nick was reminded just how much of an arse Louis really was.

(“Ta for now!” He heard him call out, and Nick purposely increased the volume of whatever mind-drilling ad was playing to drown out the sound of his smugness.)

Nick was still in a shit mood by the end of his show, the clock ticking almost 9 o’clock and his quiff now limp and deflated. Gellz had once asked him if his happiness depended on the state of his hair, half-serious and entirely drunk. Once posed, Nick hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it, no matter how scary the idea that his moods could be controlled by how heavy a dose of hair-gel he used in the mornings. Running a hand through the sad mess, he was caught off-guard by his cellphone ringing some ironic cabana demo.

“You’re coming out tonight.” Henry said, and Nick immediately perked up. Nothing cheered him up more than getting shitfaced and regretting it in the morning.

“When and where?” Nick asked, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder as he searched for something to write the address on. All that was on his desk was paperwork and empty crisp packets, so he stole a post-it note from Fincham’s immaculate collection. It was bright purple and told him: ‘Today is the beginning of the rest of your life.’ in the bottom-right corner. Nick snorted.

Scribbling down an address in bloody Shepards Bush, the apparent new hip music area since Camden had gotten too ‘mainstream’, he thanked Henry and promised to see him later that night. Some band were playing, Fuck Direction or whatever, relatively well known in the up and coming indie scene and consisting of very handsome, jail-baity Northern boys.

Let the night begin, Nick thought to himself.


	2. National Anthem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to come out, because I literally wrote it in an hour. Thank you for the messages and the kudos!! So yeah, looks like I really will be continuing this: woops.

 

  _Wind in my hair, hand on the back of my neck. I said, 'Can we party later on?', he said, 'Yes, yes, yes.'_

National Anthem, _Lana Del Rey_

**Harry**

The club was the grimy kind with grease-slick counters and durex wrappers littered across the bathroom floor that made Harry feel like he’d just stepped into an episode of Skins. The walls were sticky and so was their audience, bodies pressed close and watching expectantly as Harry fiddled with a few rogue bass notes. Somewhere in the small crowd a hipster had his glasses knocked off by a bloke in a tracksuit, his indignant cussing reaching Harry like an incessant buzzing. Bass in hand, he was in his zone, and for the first time in too long, felt completely in control.

They started on some song Harry had written in sixth form, with a too-long title about kissing girls and sleeping with boys. It wasn’t his best work, but the riff was frantic enough to get the crowd jumping and played often to receive some recognition.

It was easy to lose himself when they were performing like this, hair falling on his face and swaying to the beat of Niall’s drumming. Music has always been therapeutic for Harry, a method of alienating himself away from the ugly world of nine-to-five and heartbreak. It hadn’t used to be so ugly.

He saw him during their last song.

Whoever was in charge of lighting in this fucking club was going to get a bolloxing because it wasn’t fucking fair that Louis could stand there in the middle of this sweaty, gross crowd and look like _that_ , shiny and clean and unaffected by how wrong this all was.

He was wearing that tight, stripy t-shirt that Zayn always joked made him look like he’d just broken out of a particularly flamboyant prison, and his hair was swooped and lovely and _fuck_. He needed to look away.

Harry put every last ounce of his concentration in playing this shitty venue and this shitty song but god, he was so angry. Louis had no right to be here, none at all. After he’d stomped all over his heart, Harry had made Louis promise that he wouldn’t come to their shows anymore – that it would be weird and no one would benefit. Louis had accepted that.

Yet here he was, and what was worse, sporting some tall guy with a dress shirt’s arms around his waist. (A fucking dress-shirt. Where the fuck did he think he was? Chelsea? Get fucked.)

Niall seemed to notice Harry’s hesitation and Zayn was taking this somewhere no punk song should ever go: a fourth minute, so he rounded up the number with a few final notes and swift kick to Zayn’s shin. Luckily, his resulting yelp closed the song just fine, that authentic fucked-by-the-man pain every good punk song needed.

The club cheered and Zayn preened, purring something undoubtedly suggestive into the microphone that had the girls in the front row fanning themselves with dated flyers. Niall was the first off-stage, switching his drums for an ice-cold Guinness at the bar; Zayn followed suit, ignoring all of his admirers with a predatory gaze on Liam from Are You Andy?. Harry was left to loiter around the already dimming stage, unplugging and replugging random wires to avoid having to confront Louis.

He knew that the moment he left the stage he would no longer be safe. Louis would want to speak to him, kiss him on the cheek and ask him how his life was going. Enquire after his mum and how their veggie garden was coming along. Introduce him to dress-shirt and tell him all about how they met a Farmer’s Market, fingers grazing over ripe dragonfruits and home-made scones. Louis was like that, always interested in people, but there would also be an element of competition, making sure he was the sole winner in their muddle of a break-up.

Today had been the first day Harry had showered in the past week; Louis clearly had nothing to worry about.

Eventually, the lights went out, and he was ushered off-stage by the hipster in glasses. He almost felt bad about the mess he’d cooked up with the wires, but the thought of spreading gloom into the lives of others worked somewhat in his favour: Harry slipped over to the bar feeling a little bit lighter.

Apart from a few pats on his back and a “nice kick to your singer, mate!”, he went virtually unnoticed, ordering a rum and coke and checking over his shoulder every few seconds in case Louis had scoped him out and was coming over.

The coast seemed clear, so Harry allowed himself to relax. Some guy slipped into the spot beside him, ordering a whiskey on the rocks and checking his phone. The bright light of the screen was disorienting, and Harry turned the other way, just in time to meet Louis’ eyes across the club and inadvertently invite him over.

Fuck.

Harry wasn’t going to panic, he promised himself this, but well – promises were made to be broken and now he was staring into his rum and coke negotiating the possibility that he’d be able to drown himself in it. Deciding the likeliness was rather low, he went for the next viable option.

“Could you be my fake boyfriend for the next five minutes?”

 

**Nick**

When Henry had persuaded him to watch the jail-baity Northern boys perform in the grittiest bar of the West End, Nick had never imagined that their obscenely pretty – yet, surprisingly violent – bassist would be asking him to be his boyfriend for five minutes.

And he wanted to say no, he really did.

Nick didn’t do boyfriends, not even five-minute ones. He did three AM fucks in club toilets and rolling out of strangers’ beds in the early hours without leaving a note. He wasn’t a nice guy; it didn’t bother him.

Boyfriends meant responsibility. It meant someone relying on you, caring about you, knowing your drink orders and finishing your sentences, calling you at work to remember to buy tamarind paste for that special Thai dinner they were making, getting jealous and upset when you slept with other people.

The thing is, as much as he liked being cared for and eating other people’s food, Nick had never been good at the fidelity part of relationships. He liked people, he liked sleeping with people, and apparently boyfriends didn’t really want that in a partner. So Nick swore off love and actually, his life had been fairly unproblematic before then.

Until this sad little thing was looking up at him with big, alarmed eyes and a face so lovely Nick would have had to be clinically insane to turn down. His fingers were gripped tightly around his rum and coke and he was looking at Nick as if his fate rested entirely in his hands.

So Nick did what any sane, red-blooded man would do: he kissed him.

To the boys merit, he didn’t act surprised when Nick’s lips pressed against his, a hand curling around his neck and the other hovering above the curve of his rather inviting arse. Instead, he pulled Nick closer, tugging at his coat so he was near enough to splay his hands over Nick’s chest.

The kiss was warm and slightly desperate, the boy trying to speed up the process by moaning into Nick’s mouth and biting on his lower-lip. It was obvious he wanted to put on a show, but Nick wasn’t having any of that. If he was going to be somebodies fake-boyfriend for five minutes, he was going to do it properly.

He kissed him slow and languid, until finally the boy stopped huffing and gave in, letting himself relax into Nick’s touch and reaching to stroke the curls at the base of Nick’s neck. He was better like this, Nick thought, when he wasn’t out to prove anything and just let himself be thoroughly kissed. As far as kisses went, this was definitely up there in his top ten: the boy was good, experienced; leaving a faint taste of rum and chocolate that Nick found oddly endearing.

He would have happily continued to snog the boy for the rest of their designated five-minutes had it not been for a particularly high-pitched squawk from in front of them, coming from no other that Louis, hands on his hips and a confused looking boyfriend behind him.

“For god’s sake, Tomlinson, what do you want?” Nick drawled, sliding his arm up the boy’s back so he could massage a possessive hand behind his neck. He’d seen Alexa do this to her poor fool of an ex-boyfriend once; it came off both menacing and sexy. The boy leant into it, flashing Nick a surprised look at their interaction before turning back to Louis and (who he presumed to be) Greg.

“Just wondering why on earth you’re snogging my ex-boyfriend, Nicholas.” Louis replied testily, glaring suspiciously at the two of them. Beside him, he felt the boy freeze, and now his alarmed expression and hurried kiss made sense: he didn’t want to face Louis alone. Nick couldn’t blame him.

But it definitely made this whole situation a hell of a lot more interesting. If Nick had just snogged Louis’ ex-boyfriend, then that meant curly bass player with the bitter rum flavour was no other than Harry, the mystery ex-boyfriend with the brilliant playlists and broken heart.

Nick fucking _knew_ he’d be a great kisser.

“Harry…” Nick stated, gaze trained on the boy’s. Harry nodded, still looking like he’d somehow surfaced on Mars. It wasn’t really fair that he could look that good tipsy and confused out of his mind, Nick thought idly.

Nick cleared his throat. “Well Louis, me and Harry here were snogging because that’s usually what you do when you meet someone that you like and want to share tender, intimate moments with. Right, Harry?”

“Right.” Harry coughed, sounding strained like he was trying not to laugh. “Tender, intimate moments and all that.”

Louis was still staring at them, a carefully blank expression on his face. “If I’m not mistaken, Grimshaw, the last person you had tender, intimate moments with, you left face-down in a bowl of pretzels after some messy, midnight hand-jobs. Also, if I’m not mistaken, that was two days ago.”

The little shit.

Nick waved his free hand jauntily, resolving to replace all of Louis’ Top 40 buttons with death metal anthems the next Monday. “It was a pretty second-rate hand-job, anyway.”

This time Harry really did snicker, burying his head in Nick’s shoulder to avoid Louis’ burning glare. Louis immediately turned his attention back to him.

“How do you two know each other, Harry?” He practically purred, watching Harry pale in response. After a sequence of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ and Harry shrugging at everybody at the bar, Nick rolled his eyes and took over. It had been four minutes and twenty-three seconds and he was already stupidly fond of the boy.

“We met at the bar. I complimented his spur of mindless violence to salvage a punk song and he bought me a drink.”

“Romantic.” Greg mused, flashing them a shy smile.

“We’re the love story of the new age.” Harry sang vaguely, and that was more like it. He’d got them into this mess, he was at least going to contribute to ruining Louis’ night.

“We were just getting to know each other before you came along, beady vulture eyes working their magic.” Nick knew he shouldn’t work Louis up, because Louis had proved over time that he had many nasty tricks up his sleeve to get back at him, but seeing as he hadn’t actually done anything wrong – except get involved his this stupid little love mess – live and let die.

“I do _not_ have beady vulture eyes.” Louis protested, adopting his furious kitten stance.

“The beadiest.” Nick grinned.

“How do _you_ two know each other?” Harry broke the tension, as they both turned their snarls onto him. He himself seemed most surprised at his question, and both faces immediately relaxed. He really was cute.

“Work.” Nick and Louis said tersely.

Greg’s eyes lit, outstretching a hand to shake. “Nick Grimshaw! Indie slot; big fan, man.”

Nick took it, smirking as Louis muttered ‘shut up, Greg’ from the corner of his mouth and tugged his hand out of Nick’s.

“We’re off now.” He said imperiously, a last suspicious glance shot at them, before he literally dragged Greg off towards the bathrooms. “I’m not going to wish you a goodnight, ‘cause I hope it’s shit.”

Nick laughed all the way until he couldn’t see them amongst the crowd, and then a little bit more when he saw Harry watching him, an expression of bewilderment etched on his pretty features. He continued to watch him as Nick ordered another drink and patted him roughly on the head.

“Well, that was fun, Harry, nice meeting you and all. Louis is going to kill me next Monday but that was sort of worth it. Have a good night.” Nick just about sauntered off, still giggling over the past five minutes when he felt a hand curl around his wrist. His skin tingled under the touch, and well, that was new.

“Wait, don’t go.” Harry murmured, pulling him back gently so they were face to face. Nick let him.

“Why?”

“Because,” and Harry grinned, a smile that made his eyes shine greener and the club seem cleaner and Nick sort of weak at the knees, “we have the whole night ahead of us.”

Nick’s mind raced through old-school punks and the stripes of Louis’ shirt and a billowing sail on Harry’s mixtapes and finally on the drinks he’d have to buy Henry for inviting him to this gig and then not even turning up. Harry was looking at him through his eyelashes, taking nervous sips of his rum to undermine the possibility of rejection even though there was no chance in Hell that Nick would ever say no to such an exquisite creature.

“What are we waiting for then,” he grasped Harry’s hand, dry and warm between his fingers. Harry’s smile grew, and he tightened his clasp on Nick’s hand. “Let’s go.”


End file.
